


Call and Response

by vodkaanddebauchery



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gay Bar, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:51:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3128540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodkaanddebauchery/pseuds/vodkaanddebauchery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Around three he slips off into a fitful doze, and wakes in a cold sweat when the sky outside the apartment windows has turned steely gray touched with blue around the edges. It’s a cold morning in March. </p><p>Words have appeared painlessly on the inside of his left arm, beneath his pyjama shirt. He checks them over and over again in the bathroom mirror, staring at the small letters until his vision blurs.</p><p>[Soulmates Tattoo AU, IE once more Vodka obliges tumblr]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call and Response

**Author's Note:**

> wintersoldier-iscoming originally posted the AU/idea for their Words, but it was through protectbuckybarnesatallcosts that I found the prompt and realized this was another call of the people I had to answer.  
> A note on timelines - I'm still running on MCU canon where Steve was born in 1918 and he and Bucky are close in age (to within a year). However, I was not able to find canon dates for Sarah's death, so I did fudge that. Otherwise, everything is canon-compliant with a few deviations. 
> 
> Written in a single evening when my other projects were being contrary, and unbeta'd. I apologize for any mistakes or errors in grammar and formatting. 
> 
> Once again, I sincerely appreciate you all taking the time to read, kudos, and comment if you are feeling so kind. Thank you so much ♥

In the dim, fizzing light of the single bulb in the bathroom, Bucky twists this way and thatl. He cranes his neck to see if anything’s showed up somewhere on his back - it’s always a mystery where and when they’ll show up, but every night for the six days leading up to his birthday he’s been checking regularly. He lifts his arms to check beneath, on his ribs. He remembers the aunt of a friend had hers show up on the bottom of her foot, and hops awkward and storklike, all gangling long limbs in the tiny closet of a bathroom, just to check. Nothing, same as the last six nights. 

Just the same as the last six nights, he’s just about to pull his drawers off and check his ass (stranger things have happened, the pamphlets they’d all gotten in 9th-grade biology had said as much!) when Rebecca starts pounding on the door with both fists. Bucky nearly crawls out of his skin, thinking for sure he’d been quick enough this time. 

“For Chrissakes, Buck -”

“Rebecca, watch your language!” Ma admonishes half-heartedly from the living room. 

“Ma, he’s taking _forever_ ,” Rebecca groans from outside the bathroom, “and it’s not like his Words are gonna show up while he’s looking for them!” 

“At least I’m gonna have Words,” Bucky hollers back at his sister through the door. “Unlike certain little pests who keep trying to barge in on their brothers!” 

“James, that was uncalled for,” Ma calls from the living room. “Stop checking and let your sister in, the rest of us have to use the washroom too.” 

Rebecca scowls at him after he’s pulled on his pyjamas and opened the bathroom door, like she isn’t going to monopolize the bathroom for an hour to prod and and poke her fresh crop of pimples. She’s thirteen, and Words are the least of her concerns right now, compared to the fresh anguish Bucky’s felt every second for the past three weeks approaching his birthday. For the past week he hasn’t been able to sleep all that great. Most important day of his life is tomorrow, and he has no idea what the Words are gonna be or who’s gonna say them. It makes him feel a little sick with nerves if he thinks about it too long.

Becca crowds him out and slams the door for good measure. The downstairs neighbor thumps on his roof in complaint, but not as hard as he usually does, so he can’t be that mad. Bucky sighs and tromps into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water before settling on the sofa in the living room with a heavy sigh. His stomach is twisted in knots, and it’s hard to drink the water. He turns sixteen tomorrow. 

“Don’t do that,” ma says, not lifting her eyes from the sock she’s darning. “Makes you sound like your pop, I’m not ready for both of the men in my life to sigh like that.” 

“Ma,” Bucky begins, and hell if his voice doesn’t crack. He feels himself grow hot in the cheeks and tries again. “Ma, what’s it like getting the Words for the first time?” 

“You get used to it,” ma says plainly. “For the first week or so it’s like you can’t get rest nor relief, because all you’re thinking about is what that stranger is going to say next, or if the Words are anything like what someone you know would say. After that you’re so tired you sort of stop taking notice of them until they’re Said to you in person.” 

Bucky mulls on that for a while, still feeling tight in the gut. He thinks about something else, and feels himself blush again. “And what if - the sort of person saying them is - will you and Pop like them, if I’m supposed to be with them?” 

At that, Ma does look up from her darning. She peers at him over her little eyeglasses, and Bucky can’t quite tell what she’s thinking. 

“Your father and I believe that the Words are the Lord’s way of guiding us to be the best person we can be through the most important relationship we’ll ever have,” she says at last. “A lot of folks disagree with this, but as far as we’re concerned if the person who speaks your Words is a young lady or a young man, we’ll love them just as much as we love you.” 

That night in his creaky bed Bucky tosses and turns until Rebecca lobs her pillow at him from the other side of the room and snaps, “Go sleep on the couch, fer cryin’ out loud.” The couch is lumpy but he’s able to curl up into a ball with his pillow and quilt, and like that it’s easier to pretend like he’s not shaking with nerves. Around three he slips off into a fitful doze, and wakes in a cold sweat when the sky outside the apartment windows has turned steely gray touched with blue around the edges. It’s a cold morning in March. 

Words have appeared painlessly on the inside of his left arm, beneath his pyjama shirt. He checks them over and over again in the bathroom mirror, staring at the small letters until his vision blurs.

Ma cooks him pancakes and bacon for his birthday breakfast, and Pop surprises him with a little parcel wrapped in brown paper- the pocketwatch his own father brought over with him from Cork, which has a large dent in the case and has to be wound religiously, but Bucky loves it more than he can say. Even Rebecca, who’s been sore and surly with him for hogging the bathroom for the past week, promises him that she’s been making him a surprise in home economics - “but it’s gotta wait until Mrs. Schiffer grades it, so you can’t have it yet,” she adds. Bucky reaches over the table and musses her hair, which he knows will annoy her. 

After they’ve eaten and the plates have been cleared away, his parents suddenly grow very quiet, almost stern. “Have you gotten your Words?” Pop asks. Bucky nods, swallowing. 

“Can we see them?” 

Bucky unbuttons his pyjama top and pulls his left arm out of the sleeve, extending it under the kitchen light so they can all see. His heart is pounding. 

Rebecca starts _howling_ in laughter and doesn’t stop until there are tears running down her face.

~**~ 

“You’re a late bloomer, Steven,” his mother beams at him from her bed, propped up against her pillows. She sips the cup of weak tea he brought for her. “There’s no shame in that.”

Steve frowns. His sixteenth birthday has come and passed without any trace of his Words, and his seventeenth, and tomorrow, his eighteenth birthday, will probably pass without any sign of them either. “I’m starting to think that I don’t _have_ any Words,” he says. He doesn’t elaborate why. His mother’s tried to keep him alive for so long, and knows him so well besides that she can read between the lines. 

True enough, her pale lips purse. “Don’t be like that, darling. It’s your birthday tomorrow. It’s not every day you turn eighteen,” she points out. 

“Yeah, for all the good it’ll do me,” Steve mutters, unable to bite back the bitterness. “Another year of pneumonia in the winter and getting my eyes blacked by the neighborhood roughs. At least I can be legally rejected from the army when I try to legally enlist tomorrow.” 

Sarah sighs. Suddenly she looks very, very tired, more than she ever has. “The army’s not for you, Steve. You’re an artist, a creator. You have so much talent.” 

It’s Steve’s turn to sigh. “But not enough, ma.” There came a point in getting scholarship rejection letters where he just decided to give up, wretched and secure in the knowledge that no matter how polished his portfolio was, it just wasn’t polished enough. 

She shifts her tea to the other hand so she can reach for him, patting his arm. Her touch is so weak, it’s like a little bird landing on his right arm. “Don’t look so glum, darling. You’re still so young. There’s no reason for you to act old before your time.” She looks distant for a moment, then back over to him, a little hint of a smile flitting about her lips. “Would it be terribly awful if I wanted to give you your present today?” 

“Ma,” Steve begins, shocked. Money’s been so tight - for the past few months, really - that he’s resigned himself to a quiet birthday without fuss or fanfare. He tries again. “You really didn’t have to. I’d have been fine with just making dinner for us.” 

Sarah shakes her head. “Let me treat my birthday boy to something nice,” she says. “Go to my jewelry box, it’s beneath the necklace tray.” 

Steve rises from her bedside to go to the wobbly desk that serves as her dressing table and opens the jewelry box, mostly empty save for her glass pearls for church and the wedding ring she hasn’t worn in years. He lifts the tray and discovers a little cardboard box, unwrapped. He brings it back to the bed, setting it on the quilted bedspread. 

“Open it,” she says, flapping her hand weakly at him. “Go on. I’m not going to be awake for much longer, I can tell you that.” 

Steve does so, pouring the contents on the bed - a pair of cufflinks, lightly tarnished, a tie pin with one out of three tiny jewels missing, and two and a half dollars, mostly in coins. It’s more money than they’ve been able to scrape together in a long while, and Steve immediately balks. 

“Ma, let me go buy some better food, or some medicine -” he begins, but Sarah fiercely shakes her head with more energy than he’s seen her have in weeks. 

“I’ll have none of that, Steven Grant Rogers,” she says, stern. “You take that money and go out to do something fun or buy yourself something nice, do you hear me?” 

“But,” he tries again, looking despairingly at the cash. It’s _so much money._ He imagines more medicine for his ma, richer soup or stronger tea, at least. He imagines a new sketchpad, because his current one is stray sheets of paper clipped together. He imagines a new jacket, one that won’t let the rain in.

“No,” Sarah says firmly. “And if you come back here with medicine or things for me, I’ll get right out of this bed and clock you over the head, I promise you I will.” 

That is the first time Steve’s ever heard his ma lie, and the knowledge that it’s a lie as much as anything else causes his vision to go hot and blurry around the edges. He stares down at his father’s cufflinks and the scattered dimes and nickles and starts to cry from the generosity and futility of it all. He doesn’t want it to be his birthday, doesn’t want to receive these gifts. He doesn’t care about the long-overdue Words, or that he’s turning eighteen tomorrow and there will at least be fireworks he can watch from the front stoop. He can’t take this money and spend it on a good time. Not when Sarah Rogers is dying. 

In the next week she begins to decline. By August she’s gone, and suddenly Steve is at once an orphan and a lone adult, swallowed in Brooklyn’s baking-hot brick maw. He scrapes by for rent money and skips meals when he has to, goes to bed hungry and sick, but doesn’t touch the money Sarah gave him. 

Weeks before his nineteenth birthday a faint stain begins to show up on top of his right arm. At first he thinks he’s been careless with his oil pastels and tries to scrub it off, but the next day they appear a shade darker. On July fourth they’re fully filled out, and Steve stares at his Words, perhaps a little disappointed.

~**~ 

Bucky is twenty-one, and his Words ain’t that big of a deal any more. Like his ma said, the first week you’re on high alert, and after that they’re just background noise, or something unexpected waiting in the wings. And it ain’t that unusual for someone to wait years and years before their Words are spoken - Lou, the boss down at the docks, had his for close to fifteen years before a lady nonchalantly asked, “Nice weather we’re having, yes?” and without thinking he responded, “Yeah, but it looks like rain soon.” They married two weeks later.

In the meantime, Bucky’s dated off and on, but the dames have never been confrontational enough to say his Words and the fellas usually - with few exceptions - aren’t much interested in doing a whole lot of talking. As far as he’s concerned, he’ll hear ‘em when he’s meant to hear ‘em. The teenage angst over the Words appearing on his sixteenth birthday is something he laughs at now, childish anxieties over nothing. 

It’s Fourth of July and today it falls on a Friday, so the whole of the city is out and about. Rick and the rest of the guys from work tried to lure him out with the promise of cheap whiskey and pretty girls, and both his ma and Becca (whose own Words have appeared nearly hidden on her back - Bucky laughed as payback, but really her Words look to be quite sweet) have tried to lure him back home for a family meal. 

It’s hot out and his blood is up, so he dodges both sets of invitations and thinks about going to one of the bars instead. He likes living mostly on his own, even though rent can be tough sometimes when his hours are lean. No one holds him accountable if he wants to go find some fun with a dame or fella whose Words don’t match, and no one tuts at him when he comes home with his lip bleeding and knuckles bruised. Best of all, no one makes snide comments when he really just wants to stay at home and read his science-fiction magazines at the kitchen table. Bucky likes being twenty-one. 

The bar he ends up at is of a very particular clientele, and as such isn’t quite as crowded as the dance halls or other joints in the city. Bucky orders the cheapest swill whiskey that’s still palatable and leans against the bar, eyeing the other patrons up. The fans overhead do little to stir the muggy air, and within minutes the first few buttons of his shirt are popped. It’s broiling in here, is what it is. 

After a few moments of observation, sadly, it would appear that none of the other guys in the bar are much his type. There are a few that look promising, but also far too haughty for his tastes, the way they eye everyone else and sniff. He ain’t interested in the rough sorts, though he guesses he sort of looks it himself. There’s a skinny kid around his age sitting by himself at a table - not his usual type, but Bucky supposes he’d be all right if his body language didn’t very clearly read _do not approach, do not engage._

Instead, Bucky decides he can find a fuck later, or a fight if a partner isn’t easy to come by, and resigns himself to getting drunk. As the night deepens, crowds of men come and go, in larger and larger numbers. With the police more occupied keeping the crowds of Fourth-of-July partygoers peaceful, everyone in this bar seem to breathe a little easier, and as such become a little bolder, more flagrant in flirtation. 

Bucky lets himself be chatted up once or twice, but for the most part sticks to his whiskey. He doesn’t like getting out-and-out plastered in joints like this, but by the time his second whiskey is gone he’s happily tipsy. He sets the glass on the counter and signals for a third when a kerfuffle in the corner draws his eye. 

The skinny kid at the table, who’s been nursing a beer all night, is hemmed in by three of the rougher sorts who’ve lately wandered in - and from the stormy expression on his face, he’s none too pleased by it. Their voices aren’t raised enough for Bucky to hear what’s being said yet, but he’s got a finely-honed sense of when trouble’s gonna start brewing, and it’s right about to. 

He foists the third cheap whiskey onto the guy to his right, slaps a few coins down onto the counter, and wades over to the small table in the corner.

~**~ 

Steve knew he should’ve stayed home. It’s his birthday, and he figured he’d try to spend the money his ma left him - it’s been mostly untouched, except when rent was overdue, and now is as good a year as any. He’s not much of a drinker, and his few attempts at finding a date in bars like this have been laughable, but why the hell shouldn’t he go out and try to have some fun?

Except this year it seems like his birthday surprise is a couple of big guys in ill-fitting jackets who just wandered in and don’t wanna hear no for an answer. 

In the last three minutes he has, however, learned that he has “a pretty mouth.” Steve’s skin crawls. He wants to go home. He doesn’t want to be at home. If he gets up and leaves, they win. If he stays, they get the wrong idea about him and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to fend them off. 

“Scuze me, fellas, you might wanna clear off,” comes a new voice, drawling from behind the trio of creeps. Steve tenses when they all turn around.

“Why would we do that?” 

“I might be wrong but your attention ain’t welcome here, and any further attempts to force it are gonna end mighty bad for you.” He can’t see the speaker, but can imagine the sort of sleazeball he is - fast-talking, probably the sort of guy who’s beat Steve up on occasion. 

All three exchange glances with one another, and the presumable leader of the trio squares himself, drawing himself up to his full height. “And why would we do that?” 

“Because it’s the fourth of July, asshole,” says the new guy. “And I think an anonymous call to the cops about three guys causing a disturbance in a queer bar would get everyone here feeling mighty uncivil to all three of you.” 

They all look at one another, maybe a little more considering this time. Steve starts wondering if he should just ditch his beer and sneak off when the most aggressive flirter of the three turns back to him with a regretful expression. “Sorry, sweetheart. Guess tonight’s not your lucky night.”

“Poor me,” Steve says drily when the three of them stalk out of the bar, presumably on the prowl for easier prey. His would-be savior hasn’t approached him, but is just standing a few feet away, arms crossed over his broad chest. Now that the creeps are out of the way, Steve can recall seeing him come into the bar not too long ago, even felt his gaze rest casually on him while he scoped out the room. Now his gaze is a little more intense, more considering, but nowhere near as threatening as the three men he’d driven off. 

Finally, his gaze gets to be a little too much, and Steve looks up at him and snaps, “And what the hell are _you_ lookin’ at, tough guy?” 

The guy takes it in stride. He raises an eyebrow and drawls smooth as anything, “Cool it, dollface, just checkin’ out the goods is all.” 

Steve is going to get angry, he’s going to get so very, _very_ angry, but everything’s gone hot and cold and his body’s been swept up in electricity and freezing water at once. His eyes widen, he feels his mouth drop open at the same time he sees a mirror image of shock pass over the brunet stranger’s face and stay there. His eyes are bugging out, and he’s making no attempts to recover himself.

In the cruelest twist of irony the world has ever seen, Steve’s the first to recover. His fingers tremble when he rolls up his right sleeve. 

_Cool it, dollface, just checkin’ out the goods is all_ stretches down his pale forearm, dotted here and there with tiny moles and sparse hair. It’s been so strange to read for the past few years, but hearing it sounded natural as anything. The guy’s eyes widen even further as he reads it. It’s kind of charming. 

“May I see yours?” Steve prompts, sounding a lot calmer than he feels. 

“Yeah, sorry - sorry,” he says, nearly ripping buttons in his haste to get his shirt off. For a second Steve’s afraid it’s somewhere obscene that he has to strip fully for, but there it is, Steve’s terse question of just a minute ago Written on his left bicep. His stomach flip-flops looking at it. Around them, the bar continues in its cacophony of laughter and clinking glasses, oblivious to the world-changing shift happening at the smallest table. 

This is _It_. Their Words match. 

Steve’s not sure which of them is more rattled. The dark-haired guy is clearly making an internal attempt to right himself and act as smooth as he was earlier, but for all his mouth keeps opening and closing nothing’s actually coming out. Steve takes pity on him and extends his hand. “Got a name, tough guy?” 

“James Buchanan Barnes,” the guy rattles off far too fast, and immediately looks like he regrets it. “Most folks call me Bucky. Please just call me Bucky.” 

“Bucky,” Steve repeats faintly, trying not to smile when James - Bucky - takes his hand and shakes it. “I’m Steve. Steve Rogers.”

“Yeah, I get the feeling you’d deck me if I called you dollface again.” 

“Maybe, maybe not,” Steve says. Neither of them has let go, and Bucky’s hand is warm. Their hands fit together perfectly. “You can call me dollface when I think you deserve to call me dollface.” 

James’ face lights up like the Fourth of July and Halloween bonfires and Christmas all at once, and Steve, content with being a late bloomer for once, feels himself slip headfirst into love.


End file.
